


Veritas

by quaffanddoff



Series: Give_Satisfaction [9]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Golden shower, M/M, Omorashi, POV Bertie, Sexual Tension, Slightly sadistic Bertie, Tickling, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: Excessive drinking leads to a tickle fight which leads to a shocking revelation. Well...almost.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Give_Satisfaction [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561192
Kudos: 44





	Veritas

_In vino veritas_ , they say: in wine there is truth. But even this Wooster knows that’s not all there is in wine. There are grapes. There is alcohol, which, as I’m sure you know, is what makes it intoxicating. There is sugar, too much of which makes it cloying, less of which makes it dry. 

As for my personal tastes, you may call my palate unsophisticated, but I happen to like a little sweetness. I like richness and boldness. A little spice, a little zest. A full body. A sharp bite.

I savor my wine. When I overdo it, I regret it, but before too long, I find myself (over)doing it all over again. I can be so contrary like that sometimes, it’s really quite perverse. I have so little self-control.

Take Friday night, for instance. I overdid it, which is typical, and found that my man had overdone it too, which is not typical in the least. I stumbled back home at quite a late hour. By that time he has usually long ago gone to sleep—or at least gone to his room. I can’t really say what he does in that room once he goes in there, whether he goes to sleep, reads an improving book, writes his manifesto, practices traditional Cossack dancing, or whatever else. I really have no idea since I am not privy to those kinds of intimate behaviors. 

Although, I have learned a little.

That night, I learned that even Jeeves’s legendary grace falters when he’s under the surface. His reflexes slow and his speech slurs. His eyes look tired and bright all at once. He relaxes and loosens up. He grins, by Jove! It’s quite an extraordinary sight.

He arrived at the flat just a few minutes after I had. I could hardly believe my eyes when he slipped through the front door. His face was flushed, partly due to drink, partly to embarrassment. He apologized for appearing before me in such a state; I pish-toshed it away immediately, for it was his night off, and this is exactly the sort of merriment in which it is his right to engage on these occasions. 

I was already in a good mood, and the sight of a sozzled Jeeves struggling to maintain his usual flawless composure amused me greatly. I had pity for him, because his shame was so apparent, but at the same time, I relished finally seeing a slip of his impenetrable mask, a chink in his armor, a stain on his dignity. 

See? I told you I can be quite perverse sometimes.

I rushed to assure him that his inebriation was absolutely fine and not at all indecorous. He didn’t believe me. I insisted that he sit on the couch and have a last nightcap with me, even pouring the thing myself. 

We traded stories about our respective revelries of the evening, a birthday party at my club and a retirement party at his. I must admit, I had trouble paying attention to _what_ he was saying because I kept getting distracted by _how_ he was saying it. This wobbly, slackened Jeeves was less restrained, less precise. I am even tempted to use a word I never imagined could apply to him: silly. He kept hiccuping. The silliness was contagious. I teased him and he blushed. I felt a bit cruel doing it, but I could sense he enjoyed the razzing. 

I poured another round for each of us. I suppose I got a little carried away. I was joking about his clothes, something about his tie being slightly askew, and I reached out for his collar. He flinched away, which of course made me want to touch it again. He evaded me again, a most un-Jeeves-like mischievous grin on his face. I redoubled my efforts to grab the tie, and he kept escaping my clutches. We were both laughing at this point. We are both far too manly to do anything that could be described as giggling, so I must instead say we chuckled or perhaps guffawed. Somehow, accidentally, inexplicably, impossibly, I found that my hands were all over my valet, tickling him.

I doubt the feudal spirit even has rules prohibiting this, if only because the feudal chappies never thought to prepare for the remote possibility of such an eventuality ever occurring.

Although he was laughing, he was really trying to stop me. Unfortunately for him, I was really trying not to be stopped. I managed to unbutton his jacket and shove my hands beneath his arms, fiddling around his ribs, twiddling my fingers up and down his flanks. The poor blighter must be exceptionally ticklish, because even through a few more layers of clothing, he was squirming like the dickens. He fought back valiantly until he ran out of breath, then collapsed back against the couch cushions, still wriggling. I leaned over him so I could reach his armpits. 

We were breathless with laughter, caught up, carried away with our own antics. I threw my leg over his to try to keep him under my control. It didn’t really work; instead, now that I was straddling his thigh, I was in danger of being kneed in quite a sensitive place if he thrashed too hard. Only seconds after crossing my mind, my concern became a reality, and I heaved a great “Oof!” when his knee struck its mark.

He froze, instantly contrite. “Forgive me, sir, I do apologize!”

I quickly realized that I was fine despite the initial shock of pain. I also felt vaguely embarrassed: although physical proximity with my body was part of many of his professional duties, that was one place we had never made any kind of contact. But the only long-term effect of the jolt was to re-invigorate my fighting spirit. “No harm done, old thing. But I _will_ get you back for that!”

He instinctively shielded his groin with his hands, even though that kind of eye-for-an-eye style vengeance had not been my intention. I seized my chance to undo his waistcoat buttons and continue my tickling attack.

“Wait a moment, sir—”

“No can do!”

“I insist you stop, I have to, er, I need—”

“I will have my revenge!”

“You must excuse me, I shall return momentarily—”

“You can’t talk your way out of this!”

“I must use the facilities, sir! Stop!” 

I stopped.

Jeeves coughed awkwardly. He added apologetically, by way of explanation, “I drank quite a lot of wine at the party, sir, on top of the drinks you made us, and, well…”

Again I felt a rummy sort of embarrassment. My man and I cross plenty of lines of propriety that other gentlemen and valets wouldn’t cross, but even for us, this was too many for one night, and we had both had too many drinks for one night, and everything seemed blurred and confused. I didn’t know what to do, so I said, “You’ll go nowhere!” and renewed my onslaught.

He looked to be a new level of frantic. “No, sir, please, please!” 

I felt a sudden, odd throb that I decided must be a delayed reaction to the knee to the groin I’d received. “You’ll just have to hang on a little longer!”

“I need to go now, sir, I beg of you!”

Good Lord. Another throb, but no man ever felt _this_ kind of throb from an injury. I couldn’t really handle dealing with what that meant at this moment. “Now?” I squeaked.

“Now, please, let me go, sir!” His hands continued gripping his crotch. His eyebrows arched in desperate apprehension. He looked so helpless and vulnerable beneath me, worked up, struggling, pleading with me. The effect threatened to overwhelm me.

What was happening to me? The tingly feeling of arousal was now unmistakable, but—here? Now? Jeeves? All because he had to…?

I felt heated all over. I noticed I was sweating slightly. I was still kneeling over his leg and I shifted my balance, which brought my hips into contact with his thigh. I knew I should spring back off, lest it stir me up further, but I didn’t. This decision was the beginning of the end of my precarious self-control.

“Take it for one more minute and I’ll let you go,” I declared, surprising myself. “Think you can do it?” 

He was, quite understandably, wide-eyed with shock. But he could tell that I meant what I said. “Y-yes, sir,” he said, and to my ears, it sounded like a surrender.

I grinned wickedly and started the tickle-attack anew. In his writhing, his crisp shirt was starting to come untucked. I pulled it and his undervest free from his trousers in order to run my hands over his skin. He twisted and flinched under my ministrations, half-laughing, half-whining, and half-groaning. I know that's too many halves, but that's oddly appropriate to describe this sound, which seemed to surround me as if emanating from more than just one single Jeeves. The more I heard this sound, the more I wanted to do whatever it took to elicit it.

He had apparently accepted his fate, for although he was still thrashing and twitching, he wasn't really fighting me anymore. Feeling him give up and submit to me set off firecrackers deep inside me. Tabasco sauce flowed through my veins. Absently, I felt myself harden as his hips bucked me. Occasionally mine bucked back. If I weren’t so foxed myself and could think straight, I would have realized I was essentially riding his thigh.

In fact, if I could think straight, I probably wouldn’t be doing _any_ of this. I could only imagine what my man must be thinking. Come to think of it, what was _I_ thinking? Is this new or has this been inside me, unnoticed, all along? What is “this,” anyway? Heretofore unseen aspects of ourselves were being revealed to one another tonight and I wasn’t sure I looked forward to facing the consequences of those revelations in the morning. But there was no time to worry about that now: I had more pressing matters to attend to and only a minute to do so.

My hands, which had been tending to his ribs, slid back down his sides and pushed experimentally on his stomach. He tried to stifle a whine as his back arched and his taut belly quivered with tension. I knew all kinds of muscles inside him must be clenching and squeezing, trying to maintain control. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. I pressed harder on his lower abdomen, knowing how much more difficult this must be making his endeavor. It was clear to see from his expression, wincing with discomfort and exertion, that he was afraid he was really going to lose it. A thrill shot through me at the thought of what would happen to his crisp uniform, the pristine couch, maybe the floors, if he failed at this challenge.

I have my theories on what that would be like, detailed theories which I often take out and contemplate on long, lonely nights, but I will never know for sure, because he succeeded at this challenge, just as he does at all others. Eventually, I had to abandon my mission and begrudgingly admit, "All right, Jeeves, you made it! Well done, old thing.”

"Thank you, sir. Now, please..."

“You may get up and go," I said. "Or…you could stay and let go. Right here."

He whimpered then, a sound I never dreamed of hearing from him, looking like a man grappling with an impossible question. We stared at one another, silent thoughts passing between us.

Was he seriously considering…?

Suddenly, he made up his mind. He sat upright abruptly, pushing me off his leg. With an inscrutable last glance at me, but no words, he biffed off, speeding to the bathroom.

 _In vino veritas_. I remained seated, still panting, and adjusted my trousers. As I watched him go, I pondered the surprising, unexpected truths that may be found in wine. And those other truths that not even wine can reveal.


End file.
